There is some type of infectious optimism
in the people of Oregon–
Our rig breaks down, so the mechanic,
who is probably young enough to be our son,
can not get the work done in a day–
He invites us over–we camp in his field
we play with his goats, llamas, and dogs,
we have Mexican food from the Dundee diner
and go to the cinema to watch
The Lone Ranger while
the mechanic and his help make us whole.
And when the sun goes down
and the girls are finished swimming
and the neighbor’s goat is properly
penned in and fed,
we have a fireworks show–
no one cares that it’s a day late.
And in the morning, everyone gets back
to work to fix the coach, except for
Isabelle, the kid goat, and Jasper, the hound.
And it takes longer than they thought,
so the goat and dog go find some shade
and lollygag around for a few hours.
And when dusk comes again, everything is fixed
Except for the goat that needs to have its
foot bandaged–seems it wrestled with the fence
or Mango the chihuahua who thinks he’s an Australian
And everything is calm, and the blueberries ripen
daily. One must be happy here in the summer
amid all this green.